Wayward Son
by avearia
Summary: Bobby didn't tell Danny that he was a hunter, but that was fair; Danny didn't exactly tell Bobby that he was half ghost. -Or, A Superphantom AU where Danny Fenton runs away and finds himself staying with Bobby Singer.
1. Chapter 1

Wayward Son

Danny Phantom x Supernatural crossover, meant to take place in the middle of Season 3 for both series. I got my inspiration for this fic from an old tumblr post by the-dapper-demonic-gentleman (who has since deactivated) who waxed poetic on the concept a Superphantom fic where Danny runs away from home and ends up staying with Bobby Singer, not knowing he's a hunter. I've tweaked the concept some, but the core idea is still there. I'll throw the link in my profile if anyone wants a sneak preview for the future.

So here's the first chapter of what seems to be turning into a very long fic. Hope you all enjoy! Comments always appreciated.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

—

Bobby found the boy holed up behind the tool shed, unconscious and bleeding in the rain.

The boy looked young; fifteen or sixteen, thereabout. Judging by the state of his clothes—dirty t-shirt and jeans under a weather-worn jacket—he was likely homeless. His black hair dripped in the rain, long bangs falling over his closed eyelids.

He looked peaceful, untroubled by pain or nightmares, like he'd simply leaned against the shed's rough wall and fallen asleep, cradling his injured arm.

Bobby Singer eyed the gashes decorating the teen's pale skin. He saw four long, ragged marks, like claws had slashed down the kid's forearm. An inexperienced eye might've assumed it was caused by a bear attack, and Bobby might've made that mistake too, if he hadn't seen the ectoplasm.

It was almost gone, rapidly evaporating or washed away by the rain, but splatters of it clung to the boy's clothes. The color had confused Bobby at first; most ghosts he'd encountered emitted gray or black ooze, sometimes tinged with another color, but this stuff was bright green, as if fresh from the source. Still, the consistency—the spectral, wispy translucence that paradoxically seemed sticky to the touch—confirmed his suspicions. This was a ghost's handiwork.

Ghosts. Bobby scowled. He was an old hand at dealing with the supernatural, but usually he had to go out and dig up his own cases. For one to land on his metaphorical doorstep - that was rare. Strange times, nowdays.

Keeping his shotgun at the ready, Bobby scanned his surroundings, but the yard between the shed and his house seemed clear. His EMF had gone eerily silent a couple of minutes ago, even before he'd found the fading glow of an ectoplasm trail that led him to the shed in the first place. Whatever ghost set it off was long gone.

"God dammit," muttered Bobby, lowering his weapon at last and kneeling by the teen. He needed to get this kid to safety before whatever ghost attacked him came back to finish the job.

Reaching out, his fingers brushed the boy's neck, feeling for a pulse.

The boy's eyes flew open.

"Gah!" The kid jerked away from the touch, hands raised in alarm. Startled, Bobby leapt back. The boy wasn't unconscious after all.

Disoriented, the kid cast about, glancing this way and that. His icy blue eyes fell first on Bobby's face, then down to his shotgun. In a panic, he tried to scramble away. "Get back!"

"Whoa there." Bobby threw up his hands to show he meant no harm. "Easy. You're injured."

"I—" caught off guard by the concerned tone, the boy faltered. The distrust didn't fade from his eyes, but as he stared up at Bobby, breathing heavy, his shoulders relaxed a fraction.

"Didn't mean to startle ya. Wasn't expecting to find a kid in my backyard tonight," Bobby admitted.

The teen's tired eyes darted around. "Where…" he mumbled to himself, between breaths, eyes taking in the yard littered with old husks of cars. Past his shadowed eyes, something clicked, and he winced. "…Right. Right." The kid murmured, and sluggishly turned back to Bobby, apprehensive.

"What's your name?" Bobby asked.

The teen stared down Bobby for a long moment, wary and unsure.

"…Danny," he answered at last.

It was a start. "Well, Danny," Bobby set the sawed-off to the side, and was rewarded as tension bled out of Danny's shoulders. "That's a pretty good gash you got there. Mind if I take a look?"

"I'm fine," said Danny, automatically.

"Yeah, sure, and I'm President of the United States," Bobby huffed, unamused. "This isn't the time to play macho, kid. Give it here."

Again, the concern and straightforwardness must've startled the boy—after a brief hesitation, he offered up his arm. "Whatever you say, Mr. President."

_Smartass. _Bobby took hold of the wrist, gently, and ran his thumb down the length of the first gash.

To his dismay, there appeared to be ectoplasm _inside _the wound, red mixing with the green. Only spots of it, but still. He'd have to disinfect pretty thoroughly, and keep an eye on it afterwards, to avoid infection.

Bobby huffed, shaking his head. Lucky kid. It was a good thing he'd accidentally holed up in a hunter's backyard. Good thing Bobby'd spent the night in, cleaning his guns, rather than out on a hunt—hell, good thing Bobby had left his EMF on _just in case_. Or this kid's arm might've gone to rot.

Too many ghost sightings out here, lately.

"So what happened?" Bobby asked, wondering how much the kid knew.

"Oh. It was just—" Danny glanced at his arm, and past the exhaustion, Bobby could see the gears turning behind those eyes, running through a list of options of what might've caused marks like those. "A wild animal. Mountain lion, I think. You know."

"South Dakota is prairie, son. We don't get mountain lions here." Bobby raised an eyebrow.

The kid shrugged. "Some other big animal, then. Didn't get a good look. It's dark, sue me."

Oh yeah, the kid _definitely_ saw the ghost that'd attacked him, alright. It wasn't uncommon for civilians to deflect when they brushed with the paranormal; who would believe the truth? Bobby was mildly impressed by how easily the kid lied, though. Lots of practice, apparently.

That just raised more questions.

"Well, whatever it was, it did a number on your arm," Bobby said, pushing those questions aside for now. He needed to get this kid to shelter, first. And patch him up. The gashes ran deep enough to require stitches, and despite Danny's witty repartee, the sweat on his brow and the unfocused glint in his eyes suggested he wasn't as well off as he appeared. "Let's get inside. I've got some first aid in my kitchen."

The kid balked. He looked like he might refuse, so Bobby was quick to add, "…Unless you'd like me to drive you to the hospital instead?"

"No—"

"Didn't think so." Bobby got to his feet. "Let's move. Can you stand?"

The glare Danny shot him was equal parts exasperated and exhausted, but he seemed aware that Bobby didn't plan on taking 'no' for an answer. Bobby offered a hand, and Danny took it reluctantly, levering to his feet, slipping a little on the wet grass.

"Good." Bobby bent to snatch up his shotgun, eyeing the mud on Danny's jeans. "Come on. I think I might have something dry for you to change into in my attic somewhere."

"I don't need—" Danny took a step forward, then abruptly cut off. His face, already pale, lost the rest of its color, and his lips tightened in pain. He stumbled back, off balance, shoulder grinding into the shed's rough wall in an attempt to keep upright.

Bobby lunged to catch him, slipping a steadying arm under Danny's good side so the boy could lean his weight on him. Through the layers of clothes, Bobby could feel ribs jutting out, practically skeletal—the kid was criminally underfed.

"Maybe see about getting you something to eat, too," Bobby grumbled, wondering if Danny's unsteady feet was due to low blood sugar, blood loss, or most likely, a mix of both.

The kid sagged in his grip, exhausted. Danny let himself be guided forward a few steps before protesting. "Wait," he muttered weakly. "My stuff—"

Bobby frowned, twisting to look at the shed. Sure enough, two foreign items slumped against the wall, close to where Danny had collapsed. A dark purple backpack, as battered and worn as his clothes, had a dented metal thermos shoved in the mesh side pocket. Beside it, an old leather blueprint case—a cylindrical tube of dark brown leather, as thick as Danny's arm and just as long—sat discarded on the ground.

The backpack was expected—any runaway worth their salt needed something like one. But the blueprint case? Not so much. Bobby readjusted his hold on Danny so he could gather both items, curiosity piqued. The leather case rattled slightly when he hefted it, something loose inside, but for the life of him, he couldn't imagine what it was.

Then Danny made the world's most pathetic snatch for the case, and Bobby sighed. "That was sad," he informed the kid. He draped the case's thin leather carrying strap over Danny's shoulder. "There. Happy?"

Danny's shaky grip tightened around the cylinder. "Thrilled," he croaked, deadpan.

Bobby rolled his eyes. At least now he wouldn't have to juggle the case, the backpack, _and _his shotgun while keeping Danny upright. "Now how bout we stop acting like a pair of idjits and get out of the rain?"

Bobby almost expected Danny to rummage up another excuse, but either Bobby's actions had placated him, or he'd simply run out of energy to argue. Either one was fine with him.

Satisfied, Bobby lead Danny through the maze of old cars parked on his lot, one step at a time, heading for safety of home.


	2. Chapter 2

_This chapter got a little long so I ended up splitting it in two. I meant for this bit to be WAY shorter.  
_

_Side note: don't do patch up jobs at home, kids. Get to a doctor if you can. You aint no Bobby Singer. _

_Without further ado, chapter 2! _

* * *

**Chapter 2**

—

"Painkillers kick in yet?"

Across the table, Danny flexed his hand and shook his head. Bobby cursed under his breath and went to remove the boiling water from the stove.

First thing Bobby did when they got inside, after dropping Danny into a chair at the kitchen table, was throw down lines of salt at the door and windows. Only then, once they couldn't be followed, did he start a pot of water to boil, pull out the first aid kit, and administer some acetaminophen.

Danny'd been pretty out of it at first, but by the time Bobby slid the pills in front of him, he seemed to shake off the cobwebs and come back to himself. Now he scanned the walls with a suspicious eye, guarded but compliant.

"Nice place," Danny said at last, looking around. He hesitated. "…That's a ton of books." He added, nodding to a stack of paper and paraphernalia in the corner that stood almost as tall as a person.

It was a bit of an understatement; Bobby's house, from tip to toe, overflowed with books, newspaper clippings, articles, references. A more accurate term might've been "a small library."

Bobby shrugged. "Everyone's got a hobby."

Danny snorted. "Well, your _hobby _would put my sister's to shame," he remarked. "And she's set to go to Harvard. Your organization system would probably make her flip, though." Danny started to laugh, but then stopped, his smile quickly pulling into a grimace, tight with misery. He looked away.

Bobby watched the rapid change of expressions, and his gut sank. He knew that look—the sudden stab of grief in his eyes. Danny had lost his sister, and recently, at that. But _how _recently? Like most hunters, Bobby zeroed in on the supernatural by following its death trail. Taking care, he set the black first aid duffel on the table.

"Is she with you?" Bobby asked, lowering into the chair beside Danny. "Your sister?"

Danny shot Bobby a suspicious glare, and Bobby held up his hands. "Hey, just trying to be careful. If she's out there, your _mountain lion _could get her, too." Though at this point, Bobby worried that maybe she'd already been attacked—or worse, had been the attacker. If Danny's sister had died and become a ghost…

The startled expression on Danny's face dashed that doubt right out of Bobby's mind. "Jazz—no. She…" Danny trailed off, eyes drifting towards the window in a soft gaze. Whatever their relationship, no ill will simmered between them.

At last, Danny slumped, sounding tired. "She's not with me. No one is."

Well. If that was the case, Bobby was glad to be off the mark for this one. One less dead body. He nodded. "Suppose that's for the best."

Danny's mouth twisted in a wry grin. "Guess I shouldn't have admitted that, in case you're some kind of serial killer, but yeah. I'm here alone."

Bobby refrained from rolling his eyes and reached for the first aid supplies. "If I wanted you dead, I think I'd just leave you to bleed dry in the rain," he pointed out, sterilizing the needle with rubbing alcohol and carefully threading the eye. "Less effort, honestly."

"I figured," Danny chirped, watching Bobby work.

Bobby dipped a clean towel in the boiled water, testing its temperature. It'd almost cooled enough to work with - steam rose off its surface, but didn't scald. They were just waiting on the pain meds to kick in, now.

"Seems like you know a lot about this stuff," Danny commented suddenly. He nudged the black duffel with his good elbow. "Injuries, and how to treat them. Got your own first aid stash and everything."

Bobby looked up to find himself under a piercing blue gaze. Despite his exhaustion, Danny watched Bobby carefully, unblinking. And Bobby became abruptly aware that he wasn't the only one probing for answers; Danny apparently had a few questions of his own.

"Where'd you learn?" Danny asked, and Bobby heard the question underneath; _why would an average guy in a trucker hat know so much about medicine? _

A bit of suspicion was healthy for anybody, in Bobby's opinion, especially for kids who'd struck out on their own. But Danny's calculating gaze also made Bobby suddenly unsure about revealing too much. Forcing nonchalance, he shrugged.

"I pick things up here and there," Bobby said. The lie came easy; he was no stranger at playing things close to the vest. "In my line of work, it's pretty easy to nick yourself, get an infection. Hospital's a bit of a drive - and it aint cheap, either."

Danny watched him for a minute longer. "That's fair," he said at last, placated, and his shoulders relaxed. Bobby blinked. He hadn't realized the kid had been tense in the first place. Less than he'd been in the yard, but sure enough, it was still there; the kid wore vigilance like a second skin. Like a cop would. _Or a hunter_.

But Danny was way too young to be a hunter. Even younger than Ellen's kid, Jo, when she started. It had to mean something else.

After a moment, in a lower tone, Danny spoke again. "So… I guess I should be thanking you. For all this." He nodded to the first aid supplies.

Bobby's eyebrows rose an inch. Manners—not something he expected from a teenager. Hell knows his boys, and dozens of other hunters who came knocking at his door, sometimes had trouble at grasping the concept. Nice change of pace. "Don't mention it," he said. As Danny opened his mouth again, Bobby repeated, "No really—don't. I doubt you'll feel very grateful in a few minutes when I'm jabbing a needle into your arm."

Danny sent him a dry, unimpressed look. "It's not that bad," he said, in a tone that implied _I've had worse. _Bobby shook his head. Yet another oddity to add to the tally on the chalkboard. "Really," Danny said, wiping at the sheen of sweat that'd accumulated on his brow. "At this point, I'm more worried about my leg than anything."

Bobby froze. "Your leg?"

"Yeah." Danny's good hand strayed to his left knee, unconsciously grasping a fistful of loose denim. "I think I felt, like, a grinding sensation when I put my weight on my left leg earlier? Ugly feeling. Not excited to try _that _again."

Bobby stared at Danny for a long moment, then abandoned the sutures and got off his chair to kneel at Danny's feet. Taking care, he rolled Danny's muddy jeans up to the knee, exposing the skin underneath.

A red-and-purple bruise swelled on Danny's pale skin, a several inches above his left ankle. No bone poked through, thank god, but the straight of his leg seemed to angle slightly, off-kilter, and that, combined with the deep swelling and Danny's description of his pain, told Bobby that one, if not both bones in the kid's leg, were broken.

Exasperated, Bobby glanced up at the kid. "Ya idjit, you should'a told me sooner," he scolded, getting to his feet.

"Sorry," Danny replied. "I was still trying to figure you out. You know—get a—" Danny paused, a beat too long; "A leg up on the situation?"

Bobby stopped. "No." He scowled at Danny. "No puns."

"That might be hard." Danny let loose a weak laugh. "I always seem to stick my _foot_ in my mouth."

Groaning, Bobby turned away. Puns. No force on God's green Earth could make Bobby appreciate them. Shaking his head, he went to fetch a table lamp from his study.

"Here," Bobby ordered, setting the lamp on the worn wooden dining table and plugging it in. "Hold still. I need a closer look."

Under the light, it became clear the damage was pretty ugly. Danny's earlier stumble made a lot more sense now. Careful, Bobby ran a hand down Danny's lower leg, tracing the bone. Beneath skin and muscle, he felt a tiny shift. Bobby pressed two fingers gently into the spot and felt something below it give.

In his chair, Danny went rigid. The kid grit his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut tight, but didn't make a sound.

"Tibia, closed break." Bobby shook his head. "Fibula seems fine though." His best guess, at any rate. "But tough to know for sure without an X-ray."

Bobby drew back. He loosed a low whistle at the damage. Kid must've had one hell of a high pain tolerance not to notice it until stepping on it wrong. Most kids his age would've passed right out. A good omen; high pain tolerance improved survival chances of almost any injury.

Still, that knowledge didn't make things easier. A home patch-up for hunters who routinely got hurt on the job was one thing; setting a teenager's broken bone was another.

"Not too late to drive you to the hospital," Bobby offered. "They'll have better painkillers."

Danny's eyes went hard again, and Bobby dropped it. He'd have time to talk the kid around later. Most doctors waited a few days for swelling to recede, anyway - realigning and splinting the injury tonight would buy enough time for Bobby to gank the ghost and make it safe to leave. Doctors could set the bone later.

"Ice," Bobby concluded. He moved to the fridge and rummaged out a bag of frozen peas. "Put this on the bruise to keep the swelling down," he handed it to Danny, who took it without a word.

"Might as well do the arm first," Bobby said, frowning. "Painkillers workin' yet? Maybe I should up your dosage."

"Don't bother." Danny huffed, jaw working back and forth. Clenched his teeth too tight, apparently. "Stuff you gave me isn't working anyway. Medication's always been weird for me." Kid looked up at Bobby, and sighed. "You should… probably just do it."

Balls, the kid looked tired. After a moment of debate, Bobby dug a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet, setting it within arms reach of Danny. "In case you want any," he explained when the kid shot him a questioning look.

"I'm too young to drink."

"You're too young to be getting back alley stitches," Bobby countered. "Especially without something to numb the pain."

Danny's eyebrows shot up towards his forehead.

"Like I said—" Bobby sank into the chair, and grabbed the nearest towel. "It's there in case you want it."

—

* * *

First things first - clean the wound. Bobby took care, dampening his towel and wiping the worst of the blood away. The bleeding had slowed, but it had hardly stopped. As he washed the messy, half clotted blood away, fresh red came in its wake.

Danny stayed remarkably quiet as Bobby cleaned, flushed, and washed each gash, barely wincing as Bobby dug out dirt and sticky ectoplasm spots with his special iron-tipped tweezers. In fact, Danny's mind didn't seem to be on the prep at all; twice, Bobby glanced up to catch him watching the rainy window in trepidation.

After a long silence, Bobby cleared his throat. "So how'd you get all the way out here?" he asked.

Danny twitched. "I walked."

"From where?" Bobby didn't believe for a second that Danny was from Sioux Falls. Better places to hide in the city, for one thing. "It's a bit late to be out for a stroll, isn't it?"

"Also a bit late to be getting tools from the shed," Danny challenged. "What were you doing out there, anyway?"

"Heard a commotion." A statement only partially true, if his EMF counted, but still. If Danny planned on hedging his answers, Bobby could, too. "Thought someone might be breaking into my shop."

"…Shop?" Danny paused. "Oh. To be honest I thought this place was a junkyard."

"You've got a gift for flattery."

A grin. "You should hear my insults."

Well. Bobby could hardly fault the kid. He'd probably come in from the back, and one glance at the bumper to bumper cars _did_ give that impression. Bobby sighed inwardly. He ought to tidy up some, but running Singer's Salvage Yard singlehandedly while playing informant to a dozen different hunters was a tough act to juggle. He had a lot on his hands right now.

"There," Bobby said, as he finished washing the final gash. Time for step two—stitching. He readied the sutures and thread.

"Hold still. This might sting a bit." Bobby started at the end of the fourth gash, the smallest, and got to work.

As before, Danny held perfectly still, tense but controlled. He took deep breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth—clearly in pain, but managing it well. It was a wise move, keeping calm; in contrast to, say, Sammy, who tended to twitch and flinch if given more than four in a row, and always ended up with the crookedest stitches Bobby ever sewed.

"Is this payback for the junkyard comment?" Danny joked, grinning through a wince as Bobby tied off the last stitch; eight for that row. "Because _ow._"

"You're doing well, actually," Bobby commented, starting on the next gash. Danny braced for fresh pain, still as before. "Not your first rodeo, I'm guessing?"

"I'm, ah, clumsy." Danny offered an excuse. "And unlucky. And a bit reckless."

"Real cocktail right there."

"Yeah," Danny nodded, sounding tired. "…Yeah."

The second gash stretched long. Danny took a stiff breath and released it in short bursts, eyes focused on the sutures as they threaded in and out - in and out. It bothered Bobby how seasoned the kid was at this, just like it bothered him that Danny was out here alone.

"So, no sister, no traveling buddies…" Bobby continued stitching, picking careful words. "You got any parents, then? Or a guardian I can call?"

Danny's jaw set, that same flash of grief in his eyes. He didn't respond.

"…That's a no," Bobby concluded, tying off the last stitch on that line and moving on to the next.

Danny worked his jaw, gripping the edge of the table with his free hand. "Are you going to call the cops on me?"

"No," Bobby scoffed, rolling his eyes. "It was pretty obvious from the get go that you're homeless, probably a runaway." Orphan, it was shaping up to look like, if he was reading Danny right. Did death just follow this kid around? "Figured, though, given the situation, if you wanted to reach out to somebody, I'd give you the chance."

Danny fell quiet, watching Bobby, curiosity in his eyes. He didn't say anything more as Bobby finished up the third row, and then the last, in silence.

With the last gash tied off, Bobby set the sutures aside and reached for the antiseptic. "How are you feeling?"

Danny flexed his hand, testing. "Not… too bad," he said carefully. "A little tense, but…"

Bobby tipped the iodine bottle over the new stitches, and Danny hissed and jerked back as the brown sterilizing liquid washed over the wounds.

"I stand corrected," Danny grit out. "A little warning next time? That _stung._" He shook his arm out, throwing droplets onto the table.

"Better to do that part quick," Bobby said. "Like ripping off a bandaid. In my experience, anyway."

Danny scowled, unamused.

After winding a light bandage over Danny's arm, Bobby turned attention to the bigger problem at hand: Danny's leg.

The frozen peas had done their work at getting the swelling down, but not by much. The bruises clustered on the calf looked like a bourbon stain on carpet. Bobby scratched his head. Broken bones meant internal bleeding. Tissue trauma. A risk of healing crooked, possibly crippling a person permanently.

But ghosts could put a person in the ground, permanently. As much as his brain insisted he drag Danny to the doctor, it wasn't feasible, not with a ghost barring the way and Danny resisting the hospital. And Bobby needed Danny's trust, if he was going to sort this out. He had no other sources to lean on—Bobby hadn't even seen the ghost _himself_. So against his best judgment, he changed out the half-melted peas for a bag of corn from the freezer, then ducked into the next room and rummaged out the splints.

"We're going to realign the bone and splint it until the swelling goes down," Bobby said, coming back a few minutes later with the lightweight poles and padding in hand. "Setting the bone is more complicated, though. It might need a doctor's touch."

"I really don't think a doctor is a good idea," Danny murmured.

Okay, the boy _really_ was set against hospitals for some reason. A sigh. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. For now," Bobby placed the splint materials within comfortable reach, then readjusted his chair for easy access to the break. "…We'll do this the old fashioned way. It's going to hurt," he warned. "So we'll go when you say you're ready."

Danny flexed his bandaged hand and cast a tempted glance at the whiskey bottle. Then, shaking his head, he steeled his spine. "Ready."

Kid had guts, had to give him that. Bobby bent over the leg. "You hold here," he said, pointing just below Danny's knee. "Keep the bone as steady as possible while I straighten the lower half."

Danny did as he was told, clamping his good hand down on the bone.

Bobby took a deep breath. Taking care, he cupped Danny's heel in his palm. The skin was clammy, but Bobby could feel the skin twitch and the blood pulse beneath his fingertips; good vitals. Good signs.

With his thumb, Bobby traced the bone down from the knee to the break. Danny hissed but held still. Feeling the impact, Bobby could make out both broken ends of the bone. The lower bit seemed tilted slightly outward from its place, like a door ajar.

"Alright," said Bobby, holding Danny's ankle with his left hand and settling his right on Danny's calf, just below the break. "I'm going to pull your leg to untwist it and then guide the ends together. On the count of three, ready?"

Danny nodded, and Bobby began to count. "One… two…" He tensed. "_—Three—" _

Bobby performed the traction, pulling the ankle smoothly towards himself. Danny bucked slightly, gasping and face draining what little color it'd regained.

Later—for hours, days after the fact—Bobby would struggle to explain what happened.

A _weird _sensation… cold, through and through, tremored up Bobby's arms. A tingling in his fingertips. A high pitch whining in his ears—the EMF lighting up, he'd later realize. He was too laser focused on the task to understand that right off.

All Bobby knew was the vague instinct that _something _had gone wrong, and he should wrap up as quick as possible. But when he moved his right hand to guide the bone back inward, he—lost his grip, somehow, like his fingers passed over (or through?) Danny's leg.

The leg dropped like deadweight out of Bobby's grip. The heel smacked the floor haphazardly. Danny choked back a cry, eyes screwed shut and head arching back, but he did not stop gripping the bone where Bobby'd asked.

Bobby stared at his own hand for a moment—the _hell?_—but quickly reached to try again. With a firm tug and press, the bone realigned, end-to-end.

"Ow—" Danny was heaving deep breaths, blinking spots out of his eyes. "That—hurt—that hurt—ow, _ow_—"

"I honest to god don't know what happened there," Bobby apologized, hand hovering over Danny's calf. "Sorry."

"Did—did you get it—?"

Nodding, Bobby reached for the splints. "The worst of it is over," he assured. "Let's immobilize this sucker. We're almost out of the tunnel. Deep breaths."

Danny looked like he might pass out, but did as he was told. As Bobby set the splint bracers down the length of his leg, padded them, and tied them down, Danny's breaths became more and more controlled until at last they rattled quietly in his throat.

"There." Bobby finished the job, and looked up at Danny. "Dumb question, but how do you feel?"

Danny sat with his eyes closed, heaving breaths, sweat dripping down his temples. "…Should've… tried the whiskey," he breathed at last. "That _sucked_."

"No kidding." Bobby nodded at the bottle. "I can still pour you a glass."

Danny shook his head, exhausted.

The EMF in Bobby's pocket clicked, a sign it had been active recently. Bobby recalled the whine. Cursing inwardly, his eyes darted to the entrance; the salt line still held firm.

_What_? Where was the ghost? Bobby's eyes darted around. It had to be close, to set the EMF off—but how could it get into a safe room?

Thinking fast, he got to his feet. "We, ah, should probably get you out of those wet clothes," he said, intent to check and salt the rest of the house. The kitchen was warded, but maybe a ghost had slipped into an adjacent room? It was the only explanation he could think of.

And—Crap. He didn't have the luxury of waiting for the spook to come to them. If it got in somehow—well, Danny didn't look like he could fight his way out of a paper bag right now. Definitely couldn't _run. _Bobby had to be proactive, stop the ghost before it got too close. Discreetly, he grabbed the bag of corn - melting, like the peas had - and used it as an excuse to slip over to the freezer. On his way he snatched the salt from the cupboard.

"So," Danny asked, eyes cracking open. "What now?"

"_You_ rest," Bobby ordered, swapping out the corn for a new bag of veggies. "Settle. We'll change your shirt - might have to cut off your jeans - hydrate you, and get you into bed." A pause. "Maybe food too, if you're up for it."

Danny snapped awake, suddenly. "You—" he huffed. "—were serious about…? The food comment earlier?"

Bobby blinked. After that exhausting gauntlet, he hadn't thought the kid had _that much _energy left _in _him. "Well, I'm no chef," he admitted, "But I'm sure I could part with the leftover hotdogs and mac'n'cheese."

Danny's stomach growled. He looked like a starved dog at the mere _mention _of food. One glance at the boy's face, and Bobby, without waiting for a nod, fetched the tupperware from the fridge, dumped it in a bowl, and slid it into the microwave.

"Five minutes," Bobby told him. "I'll be back. _Don't move._"

Apparently too tired to make a sarcastic quip, Danny sagged back in his chair, mustering a lazy salute. His eyes fell closed.

Bobby snatched his shotgun and stepped over the salt line that separated the hallway from the kitchen. Reaching into his vest pocket, he dug out the EMF, looking it over. It seemed to have gone silent after its quick burst of activity. But, better safe than sorry.

Pocketing it, he readied his shotgun. The halls of his house spread out before him, and carefully, he walked forward, eyes on every nook and cranny. After all, the EMF didn't lie.

There was a ghost in here _somewhere_.

…He just had to _find_ it.


	3. Chapter 3

_Note: I've been getting a fair number of people say they don't watch SPN, or they don't watch DP. That's ok! Since this is a shared universe AU, I have to tweak both canons to get the lore to fit together anyway - so rest assured I'll provide relevant backgrounds for each new character, and a "the road so far" recap for where the plots converge. Even if you haven't watched SPN, or DP, it shouldn't be a problem.  
_

_So! Welcome to Chapter 3, featuring Danny-doesn't-think-well-when-he's-tired and Bobby,-your-soft-spot-is-showing. Give 'em a hand, folks, they'll be here all week. _

_Reviews, as always, are lovely, if you think you'd like to leave one. Enjoy! _

* * *

**Chapter 3**

—

He didn't find the ghost.

Several minutes later, Bobby stood, dumbfounded, staring at his attic windows. Two freshly placed lines of salt laid across the sill. With them, he'd successfully placed wards around every window, vent, and door in his home. And despite his thorough investigation, sticking his shotgun into every nook and cranny as he went, he'd gotten up here without incident.

No cold spots, no ectoplasm. Certainly no ghosts.

The entire house was secure.

"…What the hell?" Bobby asked at last, setting aside the iodine salt and yanking his EMF out of his pocket, giving it a heavy glare. He was sure the device had gone off in the kitchen, but now—the damn thing hadn't even peeped. Was it broken?

He turned it over in his calloused hands, scowling. Come to think of it, the device had been acting funny in the yard, too. Only minutes before he'd found Danny - One moment, the thing had been going nuts, needle in the red, and the next, it abruptly cut to black. At the time, Bobby'd blamed the distant flash of lightning he'd seen only seconds prior. Electricity had a way of screwing with devices meant to read the field. But now… if his EMF was suddenly responding to an empty house…

"Well, that's just great," Bobby muttered, pocketing the device. He hated faulty equipment—best way to get a hunter killed. He'd have to set aside some time later and take the damn thing apart; find out what was causing the issue. Just another hassle to add to his to do list.

At least the house was secure. He scratched the back of his head. For now, he should get back to Danny. There was no ghost here, and he'd been gone long enough. Bobby dumped one last layer of salt across the windows for good measure, then tossed the spent container in the trash and glanced at the room around him. _But first… _

Mm, right. He'd come up here for another reason too, hadn't he?

The attic sat as dusty and quiet as ever. A lone, bare bulb lit the space overhead. Piles of junk littered the area; stacks of magazines, rust covered bikes, clouded glass china, and more. After scanning the room one last time, he lowered his gun and approached the northeast corner, eyeing the boxes stacked there.

Books, board games, impractical wedding gifts - things he hadn't touched in decades clustered in the far corner, quietly collecting dust. Bobby nudged them with the barrel of his shotgun, studying the labels and dates on each until he found the one he wanted.

_Winchester - 1994. _Bobby nudged open the flap to this one. He dug past the baseball mitt and the errant action figures to get at the clothes underneath.

Dark jeans and plaid flannels, t-shirts printed with music logos. It was all there, folded and forgotten, a wardrobe of dusky, muted colors. He hummed. Dean's clothes might be too wide in the shoulders, but they'd fit better than Sam's, lengthwise.

Bobby dug one out, holding up a washed out Creedence shirt, rubbing the material between his fingers.

It was so _strange, _going through this stuff again.

He'd reconnected with the Winchester boys recently. Years ago, he'd watched over Dean and Sam periodically while their father was out on more dangerous missions; now they'd grown into fine, dedicated hunters themselves. It was good to see them again, despite the circumstances. These days they visited from time to time, and called often, but it was almost always about a hunt. Most of the time, Bobby was left to his own devices, alone in this big house.

He didn't mind it, of course. Being alone. People could be such a _hassle_. But digging through old junk like this, dredging up memories of happier times - it hung like a ghost in the attic, haunting him.

Enough. Bobby shoved that thought aside. It was time to get going. Carding through the box, Bobby gathered a few outfits, shut the lid, and stomped his way back downstairs.

* * *

At the kitchen table, Danny dozed, head propped up on one arm and snoring slightly. He snapped awake with a startled jolt when Bobby walked back inside.

"—'m not tired," he argued, bleary, with the knee-jerk reaction of a kid who fell asleep in school too much.

Bobby fought a smirk. "You're not fooling anyone, kid. Here," he said, plopping the stack of clothes onto the table. He shook one shirt out, holding it up to the light. "This should fit, I think. Pick one and I'll help you change."

Danny rolled his tired eyes. "—Can dress m'self," he yawned.

Fair enough. Behind Bobby, the microwave beeped, a reminder the food had finished. "Suit yourself," Bobby shrugged, and left him to dress, reaching for the microwave handle.

As Danny poked at the pile, Bobby inspected the food. The pasta had heated unevenly, cold in the center. He stirred the dish, mind only half on the task.

So, Danny was patched up, and the house was secure. Was it time to broach the ghost question, now? _Probably, _he mused. He likely wouldn't get far without asking. He had no leads on the ghost, yet, otherwise. Hopefully Danny was in a talking mood. Scraping the sides of the bowl, Bobby opened the microwave and dropped the dish back inside, figuring another thirty seconds wouldn't hurt. He set the timer, hit enter, and turned back to his guest.

Despite his exhaustion, and his injuries, Danny successfully managed to shed his jacket and bloody white t-shirt. They sat discarded at his feet, crumpled and damp, as the kid pulled out a red-and-black tee from the pile.

White, exposed skin, riddled with marks, drew Bobby's eye. He almost jerked back at the sight.

_Scars. _

A veritable roadmap of scars was carved into the kid's back. Scratches, gouges, puncture wounds, old burns and fresh bruises. A particularly deep scar, stippled with old stitch marks, ran parallel to Danny's spine. It crawled up his torso and over his shoulder, longer than all the brand new stitches on his forearm combined.

_Jesus, kid,_ he thought.

Bobby clamped down on his gut reaction, burying it deep in his chest. Scars like that only came from prolonged exposure to danger - persistent attacks, like the kind hunters or soldiers faced, or the much more common abuse. Bobby had seen both sides of the coin, but to see them on someone so young—he hadn't quite been prepared.

The scars disappeared under the t-shirt, and Danny yawned. "Fits—" he began, plucking at the cloth. "Pretty well, actually."

Small blessings. It hung baggy on him, though given his skeletal-thin frame, that wasn't a surprise. Bobby wondered if he'd lost weight while on the road, or if he'd always been so thin.

On cue, the microwave beeped. Bobby, shaking off his introspection, gathered the bowl and delivered it to the table.

One good thing—Danny certainly wasn't suffering from shock. Exhaustion or no, he practically fell on the food once Bobby slid a spoon in his hand.

"Don't inhale it," Bobby said, checking on Danny's leg while he ate. "If you choke and drop dead, that's a waste of all my effort."

Danny rolled his eyes, but slowed, leaving deliberate space to breathe between bites as he shoveled food in. Bobby didn't argue further. The kid was literally shaking from exhaustion and hunger.

As Danny ate, Bobby checked the leg, wedging fingers beneath the splint straps to ensure proper circulation and measuring Danny's pulse against the clock. Beyond the high swelling and the abnormally cold skin - (probably the wet jeans, he told himself) - all signs seemed, tentatively, good. As good as one can get, at least, with a broken leg.

"We'll definitely have to cut off the jeans," he told Danny. "But if the ones I found you don't fit, I'll see about picking up another pair from Goodwill."

Halfway through the bowl, Danny's eating slowed, scraping up a spoonful but not shoveling it in. He stared at the dark wash jeans folded on the counter, then cast an unreadable glance at Bobby.

"Sorry," Bobby said. "But I'd rather you not catch hypothermia. All your other vitals should be good, for now. We'll keep an eye on them for the next few days."

"The next few…" Danny trailed off.

The spoon lowered back into the bowl, and Danny leaned his hand on his chin, his fingers lightly covering his mouth. His icy eyes seemed troubled.

"What's on your mind?" Bobby pressed.

Danny's words were slow and careful. "Maybe I shouldn't… stay here. It's not really…" his eyes flickered to the door. "…Safe."

"I can assure you, you'll be safe here."

Danny's tired eyes flashed in his direction. "I meant," he corrected, "…Not safe for _you._"

_Ah, _Bobby thought. _An opening_. He'd been thinking of ways to broach the question - he hadn't thought Danny would open up about the ghost on his own. Bobby tilted his head. "And why would you say that?"

Shoulders stiffened. Danny's walls went up. He clearly wasn't able to reveal everything. Still, he pressed on.

"Everyone around me—gets hurt." Danny said. Regret stormed in his eyes. "I'm sorry, but it's too risky. If he finds me—" Danny faltered, then pressed his lips together.

_He? _Bobby wondered.

Danny ran his fingers through his hair, and finally shook his head. "I can't tangle you up in this," he said at last. "I should go."

Bobby snorted. "Go _where?_" he challenged, nodding to the broken leg, the battered backpack. "The hospital? A homeless shelter? Some abandoned field to die? No. You're staying here."

"I—what?" Danny seemed… struck, almost, by the solid rebuttal. He must've been even more tired than he looked, because it took him a moment to find his tongue. "Look, I can't ask—"

"Tough." Bobby cut him off. "I'm already tangled, whether you want it or not."

"It's dangerous," Danny argued. "_I'm _dangerous."

"And I don't care." Bobby shot back. "Listen, kid, you can say whatever you want, but it's not gonna change my mind. I'm not scared of taking risks—and I'm not scared of _what's out there in the dark._"

Danny looked up suddenly, blue eyes startled. In them, Bobby could see the first spark of realization - that maybe this Good Samaritan knew more than he was letting on.

"Now you can tell me," Bobby leaned in, "…What's _really _after you, or you can keep it to yourself. It's all the same to me. But if you think for a second I'm throwing you to the wolves - sorry, to the _'mountain lions' _\- you've got another thing coming."

Danny stared at him for a long moment.

"You're safe here," Bobby repeated, leaning back in his chair. "You're staying."

Slowly, Danny lowered his arm, staring at the bowl in front of him. He seemed at a loss. Bobby could see Danny's conscience at war with his exhaustion, cowed by Bobby's stubborn generosity.

He looked so tired.

"Why are you helping me?" Danny asked at last.

A sigh. "If you were smart," Bobby warned, "You wouldn't question every little bit of kindness, and just take the help that's given."

"…I'm a C student," Danny replied, sounding weary. "No one's ever accused me of being _smart_."

Bobby sighed, scratching his head.

"…I have two boys," Bobby admitted at last. "Not by blood, but they might as well be. Always need looking after. Suppose it's just habit." Which wasn't the truth, not by a long shot. He helped people like Danny all the time. But there _was _something about the kid - and, wearing Dean's old t-shirt like that, the resemblance struck a nerve. Habit almost didn't cover it.

Danny blinked, curious. "Boys? My age?"

"…Once," Bobby said. "They've grown a bit since then."

Danny studied Bobby for a minute, then looked down at his injuries. The stitches, the splint. With a long, defeated breath, Danny leaned against the table and closed his eyes. Studying Danny's face, Bobby knew he wasn't going to get any more info from the kid tonight.

Sighing, he got to his feet. "Finish your food, if you can," he said, snatching up his shotgun. "And we'll get you into a bed. We'll talk about this more after you've had a good night's sleep."

The shotgun, more than anything, set suspicion in Danny's eyes. "Wait," he said, head snapping up. "What - where are you going?"

"Out, for a few minutes," Bobby said, gathering a flashlight. "To make sure the thing that attacked you is gone."

"—Wait you can't—" Danny actually made a move to get up, and Bobby pointed the butt of the flashlight at him, warning him to stay down. Danny threw his hands into the air. "You can't go out there alone! With, what, a _firearm?_ What do you think a shotgun's gonna do against a—"

Bobby gave Danny a look, eyebrows raised.

The kid swallowed. "—Mountain lion?" he finished lamely.

"Normally? Not much," Bobby said, pumping the stock to load a new round into the barrel. Unless, of course, the shotgun's stocked up with a couple'a rounds of rock salt."

Danny went still. His eyes flickered from Bobby, to the shotgun - then to the floor and windows, as if seeing the lines of white spread there for the first time.

"Oh," said Danny. "Salt. Yeah. I guess that'd… do the trick."

Bobby raised his eyebrows. "Really," he said, blinking at the response. He wasn't sure if he should be shocked or amused. 'Oh, salt, yeah,'?

Not _'you've got to be kidding me'. _

Not _'what the hell are you talking about?' _

Not _'what good does salt do against a ghost?' _

Just… Bobby snorted. 'Salt. _Yeah_.'

So that cleared one thing up—the kid definitely knew a thing or two about how to handle ghosts.

"Look, you—" Danny started, still grappling for some control of the argument. Trying to appeal, in vain, to Bobby's sensibility. "You just—I thought—You said it was safe here, didn't you?" he asked. "You don't _have _to go out."

"Don't have to," Bobby agreed, twisting the knob on his front door. "But I'm gonna."

Danny sighed. He pressed his hand to his face, exasperated in defeat. "You just—you—" his blunt nails dug into the bridge of his nose. He looked like he'd happily hop facedown into a grave and let someone pile the dirt in after, rather than deal with this. He looked exhausted.

_Christ kid,_ Bobby thought, watching him. _Just go back to napping already. I'll be fine. _

"…If you're not back," Danny spoke at last, raising his chin in defiance, "…in thirty minutes, then I'm… I'm. Coming out after you," he warned, struggling to come up with a suitable threat. "I _will._ Broken leg or no."

Right, sure, like the kid even had enough energy to stay awake for thirty more minutes, much less get out of that chair.

"I'd like to see you try," Bobby said. He turned to go—then turned back, thinking better of his words. "…Don't _actually _try," he corrected, suddenly afraid that Danny might, just out of spite. "I'll be back."

Danny raised an eyebrow.

"You better," he said, and that was that.

Bobby sighed. _Stubborn kid_. He thought. _Well, better make this quick, then. _

Shaking his head, Bobby gathered his wits, his flashlight, and his shotgun, and without another word slipped out into the dark.


	4. Chapter 4

_Well, I told myself I would have this up a bit sooner, but as you all know it's been a bit of a crazy year. My sister's wedding, then the Coronavirus shutdown, then the Phic Phight and DannyMay... it's been busy. Fortunately, (unfortunately?) I still have my job, so I don't have as much free time to write as some others do, haha. Pros and Cons. I just hope the new chapter was worth the wait!_

_Enjoy some good ol' Bobby Singer, who's about to bite off a bit more than he can chew. _

* * *

**Chapter 4**

—

Ghosts were the most commonplace threat any hunter, in their day to day lives, would face.

Due to their power set, they were also among the most dangerous.

A typical ghost's arsenal included: Invisibility, intangibility, telekinesis, power manipulation, possession, teleportation, and - in rare cases - flight… Plus, many had extra powers that fluctuated from ghost to ghost, based on how they died. Basically, spirits were a Swiss army knife of bad news.

It's why Bobby usually refused to hunt specters down without doing his research first. Damn things were _already _near invincible - why give them the edge? Salt and Iron could repel them, but truly getting rid of one required a hunter to salt and burn the remains. Can't identify the ghost, or can't find the body? SOL, kid. Better pick a god and pray.

Luckily, despite all their power and versatility, ghosts had one big weakness: they were _stuck. _

No ghost could move beyond its boundaries. Usually, that meant the place where it died—their trauma trapped them there, haunting, unable to move on. Haunted houses. Ancient burial grounds. When all else failed, a hunter's best bet was to get the hell outta dodge, so that the spooks on their tail, _typically_, couldn't follow.

There were exceptions to every rule, of course. Some ghosts could travel, but only under certain circumstances. One - when their body, or parts like their hair, were moved, the ghost could move with it. Two - when the ghost's boundaries weren't tied to a place, but to an _object_, they moved in the same way: when a living person moved the thing they were tied to. Or three - with enough focus, a powerful ghost could sometimes _possess_ a living person, same as a demon, and then ride them elsewhere.

Tonight, Bobby put his money on #3. He hadn't gotten much information out of Danny, but _"if he finds me" _implied that the ghost on his tail could move, and seek, of its own accord. Besides, Bobby'd already found and expunged all the ghosts that haunted a ten mile radius of the Salvage Yard, and given Danny's reaction to the _salt_, he knew a thing or two about ghosts — the kid probably wasn't dumb enough to be lugging around locks of hair, or old, haunted objects.

_(The blueprint case flashed in his mind, but Bobby dismissed it - at least for now.) _

That left possession. If a ghost kidnapped a body, it could pursue Danny far and wide. A couple rounds of rock salt to the chest would do the trick at forcing the ghost out, at which point the spook would be shot like a rubber band back to its original haunting grounds.

He just had to find it, first.

The pelting rain fell around him in the darkness, drumming on the roofs of abandoned cars and on the brim of his hat. It wouldn't let up any time soon. Bobby shook off the chill that soaked through his flannel shirt and retraced his steps to the shed, shotgun held at the ready.

It was quiet. As expected. Bobby approached the spot where he'd found Danny a few scant hours prior. A smear of congealing blood marked where the boy's body had slumped, half conscious, against the wall.

Bobby studied it, and his surroundings, with the calculating eye of a hunter. This wasn't ground zero, he decided. It was a secondary location, a place Danny must've dragged himself to take refuge after the fact. The kid had a broken leg, sure, but he also had grit and spite in spades, and adrenaline could be one hell of a drug. No, judging from the lack of debris and damage here, the actual fight — the ghost attack — must've taken place elsewhere, out in the Salvage Yard.

Bobby scowled at the ground. When he first found Danny, there'd been the eerie green glow of an ectoplasm trail that made him easy to find in the dark.

The trail was gone now, washed away with the rain. But he remembered which way he'd come.

Slowly, Bobby ventured forward, eyes sharp and scanning the darkness. His ears strained to make out any warning sounds in the patter of rain around him.

For a while, nothing came. Nothing but the sound of his own footsteps, quiet from years of practice. Bobby criss-crossed through the cars, making his way eastward, finding no clues—not even Danny's footprints in the mud. The rain had obscured all the typical signs Bobby knew how to track; instead, he fell into a zigzag pattern that covered a wide swath of ground. After each few steps he paused, cast a look around, and then made his way forward.

It was slow, painstaking work, that earned him almost nothing. But just as he was nearing the edge of his lot, just as he was starting to think there was nothing out here to find, he _saw _it.

A glow.

Lightning flashed and faded, rolling away with thunder on its heels, but still the glow remained. Green, ethereal, low between the cars. Bobby aimed his shotgun and crept forward.

He spotted the source. Ectoplasm, he realized. The same color as the stuff that clung to Danny's clothes. It pooled on the ground, diluted by rain, but still swirled in the muddy waters.

Bobby knelt by the shimmering water, dipping a finger into it. The green smeared on his index finger. _Strange, _he thought. Mixed with rainwater like this, it almost matched the consistency of blood.

Isolated, the droplet changed to a cold green wisp, evaporating off his finger. Bobby inspected the pool, wondering when the rest would dissipate.

That's when he saw the pawprint.

A wolf's track, maybe, only larger. Deep punctures dotted the tips, left from abnormally long claws. It sat on the pool's edge, pressed into the mud, the indent filled by the swirling green glow. Squinting, Bobby could see a dozen more tracks pressed into the footpath beyond, slowly eroding in the rain.

Bobby's mind flashed to the four gashes on Danny's arm. Was the ghost possessing an _animal? _

_"Where is he." _

Startled by the voice, Bobby swiveled instinctively towards the sound, finger tightening on the trigger. Cold and deep, the voice sank into his spine, echoing with a threat. But it hadn't been directed at him.

"Forgive me." A closer, younger voice - tinged with an ethereal echo - replied. Bobby ducked low and pressed flat against the nearest car, blinking away the pool's afterimage to scan the darkness.

He spotted them a couple car lengths down: two glowing figures kneeling before the blurred image of the third. Bobby spied the wolf first, a mangy mutt twice its proper size, eyes glowing red. The thing was practically rabid, with spittle at its mouth. A chain collar loped around its neck, restraining it.

Its master knelt on the muddy ground. A hood - a cowl - hid his face from view, but the quiver full of arrows on his back and the archers bow in his hand were clear enough to see.

The Archer knelt, bowed before a third figure whose form seemed to shift like mist. Bobby couldn't look directly at it; his eyes seemed to skip over the space like nothing was there. But what the third figure lacked in physical presence, his low, commanding voice made up for in spades.

_"Out with it." _He demanded.

"—I had the boy." The Archer professed. "But he escaped. And now—"

A pause was all the answer the Archer's superior needed.

_"You've lost the scent." _He scorned, displeased.

"He can't have gotten _far," _the Archer's words came out quicker, rushed. "It will take time, but I'm _sure—" _

_"You disgrace your station." _

The Archer fell silent at the interruption.

_"You cannot find a child. One," _The cold voice said, _"Single. Petty child." _

The Archer swallowed. He seemed to know better than to answer.

_"And I should believe that __**you**__," _the voice asked, _"Are the finest hunter at my disposal?" _

A hesitation. "There is… one other," the Archer admitted. "Skulker. The Zone's greatest hunter." He made a placating gesture. "But he doesn't recognize your authority—"

_"All ghosts recognize my authority." _The voice interrupted.

The Archer looked down. "…Phantom doesn't."

Oh, _wrong _move.

Without warning, something _struck, _like lightning. The earth shook below them. _"__**Phantom,**__" _the voice thundered, pealing over the rattling cars and the kneeling figures and then straight through Bobby's spine. _"…will learn his __**place**__. As will you - should you fail me." _

The Archer cowered, locked in place. "Forgive me!" he begged. "Of course. Forgive me."

The air calmed. The shaking stilled. Things fell deadly quiet. The Archer kept to his crouch, head bowed, not quite daring to look up at the shrouded figure before him.

Slowly, the mist before him seemed to shift in the silence, leaning in. And the voice spoke his command, tinged with a threat.

_"Find. Him." _

The air grew cold.

_"Or I will find you." _

In a flash, the mist was gone.

The Archer leaned back on his heels, finally daring to look at the empty space before him.

"As you wish," the Archer promised the darkness. "…Your Highness."

_Okay, _Bobby thought from his hiding place several yards away. _…This is bad. _

The Archer made a move to get to his feet. Bobby took the opportunity to size him up. The man was tall, with thick shoulders, and a pearlescent glow to his skin. Bobby saw, now, that the archer's legs tapered off into invisibility, never reaching the ground. And when the man turned to look down at the mutt on the end of the chain leash -

The archer didn't have a face. Not a visible one, anyway. Under the cowl, Bobby saw nothing but a wall of shadow, pierced by the figure's glowing green eyes.

If the feral hound hadn't been enough to tip him off, these details confirmed it. This was no possession case. These were _full on ghosts. _Judging by the Archer's medieval tunic and weapons, _old_ ghosts, at that.

Crap.

What now?

Bobby knew when he was outgunned. He had no plan of attack and no idea _who _or _what _he was attacking. How could these ghosts—_(were they even ghosts?)_—be here, without a body to possess? Were they just that old, that powerful, that they could somehow make themselves _unstuck?_ If so, the traditional methods might not even work; salt bullets might not repel them, and burning their bones might not send them packing.

Not that Bobby knew whose bones he was supposed to be burning. The stronger one, apparently, was _royalty. _And they were after someone—probably Danny, if he had to guess. But the other names mentioned - Skulker? Phantom? Bobby had no clue.

With so many questions clouding the air, Bobby knew it was time to hightail it out of here and regroup. But the moment he moved, started to shift away, the mud squelched under his feet. And the ghost wolf went rigid.

The hound sniffed for a scent, alert, then snapped its head towards him. A low growl filled the air.

Balls.

The archer swiveled to follow his mutt's stare. In a flash Bobby was spotted. The ghost picked an arrow and notched the string, drawing back to his ear.

Well. No backing out now.

"Get off my property, spook!" Bobby yelled, and fired the gun he'd kept armed and ready. The air cut with a deafening bang.

The Archer caught the salt round in the chest and jerked back. His arrow loosed, off kilter. It planted itself in the mud behind Bobby, a _hiss _of steam released when striking contact with the damp ground. Shit. Was the Archer using fire arrows?

The ghost's form flickered, his right arm dematerializing for a moment before solidifying again. Bobby knew he was in trouble. Normally, a round or two of salt forced a ghost to become incorporeal for a few seconds, at least.

A growl alerted Bobby. The wolf was off its leash. The archer must've dropped it upon dematerialization. It hunkered, growling, green spittle foaming at its mouth. Two sharp whistles from its master, and the hound moved in, galloping across the expanse in three wide leaps.

Bobby barely had time to cock his shotgun. It lunged; he pulled the trigger. A yelp, and the wolf dematerialized.

A thud echoed from behind. Bobby spun to see the animal had passed right through him. The wolf landed on its side, skidding in the mud, before rolling and flipping to its feet.

Bobby shot again. It darted aside, too slow. The salt caught its hind flank, taking a chunk from the shot. The wolf was weak; its form flickered. Bobby seized the opportunity - he fired again.

His aim was true, catching dead center of the wolf's chest. It yelped and vanished.

An airy whistle from behind caught Bobby's attention. He sidestepped in time to almost dodge the arrow. It whizzed past his right, gouging his shoulder as it passed. Wet flannel curled back from his skin, singed.

Bobby spun. The Archer had regained form and drew a third arrow like lightning. Bobby threw himself left as it loosed, and the head of the arrow punctured the exterior of the Dodge Ram behind him.

One round left in the barrel. Bobby shot the ghost as it reached for another arrow, hoping this one would be enough. The salt struck the Archer's heart, and it stumbled back, stunned.

_Just _stunned. Not stopped, not subdued. All Bobby was doing was slowing it down and, at best, making it angry. He needed a lot more firepower to beat _this _thing back, and—shit. He needed to reload.

Ghost didn't have to know that, though. "I said _get!_" Bobby brandished his shotgun as a threat.

The Archer's eyes flared bright, narrowing. In a swift motion, it had another notch on the string, and it rose off the ground, five feet up, taking aim.

Bobby nearly dropped his bluff and dove for cover, but the Archer took that moment to pause—then lowered his bow, the string going lax. "A human," the ghost murmured, just loud enough to hear over the rain. "…No. Phantom wouldn't endanger a human life."

Bobby tensed, holding his gun steady, but his mind reeled. _Phantom? _"Speak up, dangit!"

"You waste my time," the ghost informed him, voice cold. He unnocked the arrow and sheathed it. The Archer sounded almost disgusted with Bobby—or maybe with himself. "You've already cost me my hounds. Count yourself lucky that I've elsewhere to be."

Bobby blinked. Hounds? _Plural?_ "What—"

The ghost moved, and Bobby tensed, expecting an attack. But, true to his word, the Archer wasn't interested in him. It brandished a hand above its head, and the air rippled colder, chilling the yard around him. He squinted at the cars, then at the area behind Bobby - towards the house - then, at last, off to the right.

A hazy glow hung over the skyline, sprawled over the nearby city. Sioux Falls wasn't far, the city limits less than twenty minutes out. Not an easy trek on foot, but for someone desperate and on the run, it was the perfect place to hide.

The Archer hesitated only a moment more, eyes glued to the horizon.

Then, it vanished.

Bobby stood frozen for a long moment, eyes darting around. The ghost just—left? What the hell? It had him on the ropes, and then took off? He wasn't going to argue, but it seemed to be too _easy—_and Bobby knew better than to trust good luck like _that_.

He glanced around the area, eyes and other senses sharp. Nothing shifted, nothing moved to attack. Subtly, Bobby loaded more rounds into his shotgun; never hurt to be cautious. But the air around him started to warm, as much as it would in this weather, which backed up his instincts—the spooks must've moved off.

Once reloaded, Bobby did a last sweep, scanning for any glow, any disturbance. Nothing came. He reached for his EMF before remembering the device was damaged, but unexpectedly, it turned on at once.

As a test, he waved it over the spots where the ghosts had lingered. The device whined erratically, the color on its bar pumping up and down from one-bar-red to mid-bar-yellow. A signal, but weak. Assuming he could trust the EMF reader (…and he _didn't,_) the ghosts had left an imprint of their auras on this place, but both, it seemed, were gone.

"Well that was _weird,_" Bobby muttered, pocketing his EMF.

Bobby didn't know what was weirder; the Archer or the wolf. The Archer's words and apparent retreat confused the hell out of Bobby, but the wolf? Salt was supposed to _repel _ghosts. Make them incorporeal for a short time. But once Bobby wore the thing down enough, the wolf'd straight up and vanished. The Archer even confirmed as much: _you've cost me my hounds. _

Hounds. Bobby glanced around again. Was there a second one lurking on his lot somewhere? Everything about this encounter, start to finish, made Bobby feel uneasy.

He had a lot to think about. And a lot of research to do. Ghosts who come and go as they pleased? That was new. And _unwelcome. _He needed to dig up more info, pronto, before those ghosts came back.

For now, he decided not to stick around. Bobby had been planning a retreat anyway, and if the ghost wanted to give him a free pass—too busy hunting its prey to care about a stray insect like him—well, that worked out in his favor.

Especially since said 'prey' was probably dozing at his kitchen table.

Bobby turned to leave, but then something caught his eye. An arrow, planted in the dirt. The one that'd nicked his arm.

Reminded, Bobby's fingers brushed against his shoulder - it was a slight injury, bleeding, barely a scratch - before looking back at the arrow. He bent and tugged it out of the mud, inspecting the projectile. The arrowhead glinted dangerously, the shaft near it blackened by fire. It glowed with the same pearlescence of the ghost, but in his hand, it felt solid.

One more landed somewhere on his lot, lost in the darkness, and the third, he knew, was buried in the truck's driver-side door. Bobby vowed to come out and collect them tomorrow, when there was more light to work by. Maybe they'd disappear by then, like the ectoplasm evaporating in the rain, but it was worth a shot. Something for him to study, at least—and if he was lucky, maybe more.

Salt weapons didn't seem to harm this new type of ghost very much.

But using their own weapons against them—

That might just do the trick.

—


End file.
